Homeless and hopeless in the park: parks are salvation for the weary

Parks & Recreation, August, 2005 by Will La Page

For the past seven decades I have, for brief intervals, known homelessness--but thankfully hopelessness remains a stranger. Not everyone knows that America's public parks have a long tradition of providing remedies for both. During a recent visit to one of our major urban parks in the Northeast, I found myself obsessing about the role of parks in resolving America's homeless problem.

Issues of sanitation, safety, appropriateness and park attractiveness swirled around in my head along with the mission and role of parks in our society. I wondered how different is the hermit squatter in a wilderness park from the homeless squatter in an urban park? And, how different are both of them from "snowbirds"--those modern-day nomads, whose mobile homes are their only homes--going from park to park with no permanent address? What about the camper, who is between jobs and uses a park until affordable housing comes along?

It seems to me that the big difference is one of hope. In each of these examples, it is only the urban squatter that is without it, and this is the real American tragedy of the homeless.

The parks profession can hardly argue that homelessness is not a park problem, and still maintain that parks are for all people. Not only have the homeless dropped the problem in the lap of parks, to turn away now from those without hope would place parks in the untenable position of being detached from the problems of society.

So, l wondered, what might parks do for the homeless, besides conveniently look the other way? While I whole-heartedly subscribe to the maxim that "a problem accepted is a problem half way to its solution," I remain puzzled. How does a park dispense hope?

Of course we can partner with the shelters, the churches and the social service agencies in the search for solutions. Maybe we can provide meaningful work for tired people restoring tired parks. Perhaps by filling the parks with activities--day and night, every day of the year--more people will see the plight of the homeless and get involved. And, possibly, more of the homeless will find hope by being a bit closer to the society that they feel alienated from.

Parks should be able to encourage more government- and university-sponsored social research in the parks--problem-solving research on real issues. We should, at least, be capturing some of their stories. Those stories are every bit as important to include in the park annual report as are the visits by artists and school children. More use of parks by local schools, including school adoptions of nearby parks, will raise awareness of all park needs.

The park profession could also give awards, sizeable ones, for creative solutions to the problem of homelessness in parks. Portions of parks can even be set aside for gardens where at least a few homeless people might find purpose in nurturing plants. In short, we can try lots of things--some of them are bound to work some of the time.

But, how does a park renew hope when hope itself is a casualty? It does it by simply doing what is expected of parks--by being vibrant showcases of pride in the past and hope for the future. A park cannot evoke hope in others when it looks hopeless itself, when it is drained, neglected and worn out. Tired parks can still be a refuge, but only a vibrant park can evoke hope in souls where all hope is lost.

Parks are a refuge for all of us: a change of pace, a place to relax from our daily burdens, and physical and mental space that evokes memories and stirs imaginations. Whenever we hear that the park as refuge has failed, and the problems of society have followed us into the park, we feel as though a sacred place has been profaned almost beyond restoration. So, the park as shelter and sanctuary must not just be a safe place, but a special place; a true retreat for all levels of burn-out, a place where hope is re-kindled again.

Some day soon I will to return to that northeastern urban park, and to the same cluster of park benches where I witnessed a homeless family sleeping beneath cardboard sheets in the rain. They may still be there, perhaps in even greater numbers, but I hope those homeless eyes that I look into will not be quite so bereft of any spark of hope. That belief comes because I have spent a lifetime among park people.

The inscription on the Statue of Liberty, written by Emma Lazarus, is repeated endlessly, if silently, at the entrance to every public park in America: "Give me your tired, your poor/Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free/The wretched refuse of your teeming shore/Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me/I lift my lamp beside the golden door."

Who among us has ever felt weary, depressed, impoverished in spirit, yearning for simplicity and the free air of nature? And who among us has not found in parks a refuge, hope, a new beginning? Parks can turn their back on the homeless, but at what price? Would we really choose to substitute Emma Lazarus' inspired words for Dante's: "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here."